Fair and Square
by LookAgain
Summary: Sherlock loses a bet to John. Can he pay up? Can be read as epic friendship, or slight pre-Johnlock.


"You cheated!" Sherlock whined petulantly. "There's no _way_ you actually beat me at _deducing_ someone!"

John flashed a smug smirk at Sherlock. "But I _did."_

Sherlock somehow simultaneously pouted and sneered. "No, but that's _my_ thing! You're an idiot, how did _you_ figure out that it was the sister before _me_? Gavin, check his internet search history. You will no doubt find evidence of foul play."

John wanted to be miffed at the insult, but decided to let it slide, instead preferring to gloat over his rare victory- made even more rare, as it was in Sherlock's field of expertise. He giggled when Sherlock flashed a face of triumphant contempt, obviously expecting to be defended by Lestrade.

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh, and accompanied it with a pointed look at Sherlock. "You know he didn't cheat- I've only just given the case to both of you. The murder only happened like an hour ago, and John's been with you since. Just admit it, Sherlock, you've been bested at your own game." He grinned at Sherlock's disbelieving and mortified expression, one that was more befitting of a tantrum-throwing five-year-old. "John won the bet, fair and square, and you have to pay up."

Sherlock groaned. And squared his shoulders. "No."

It took every ounce of John's willpower not to burst out laughing. "Yes, Sherlock you do- the rules of the bet that _you_ set, might I remind you, were that if I "off-chance" actually solved a case before you did, then you would you would- oh my god I can't even say it- you would- would wear my clothes for a week."

Sherlock had never looked more horrified in his life. Or regretful of something he had stupidly proposed, in his boredom.

"But... _how?"_ He let out a petulant, almost childish huff.

John raised a smug eyebrow. "You didn't remember that John the 'idiot' actually understands human emotion, and furthermore has a sister of his own that sometimes wants to kill him. Just looked at the sister, saw motive, means, and no alibi, and connected the dots. Easy."

Sherlock just stood there, face scrunched up in defiance. Finally he sagged his shoulders in defeat, mumbling, "I was just distracted. But I admit it was a moderately good deduction of yours. The only good one, really."

Knowing that that was the closest to a compliment he would ever get, John just patted Sherlock's shoulder and stepped by him, to go out and get some milk. "You can start tomorrow. Enjoy your suits while you can."

As he exited their flat, still chuckling, he heard Sherlock miserably sigh, "Even the horrid jumpers _?"_

And then a second later, just before the door closed: "Oh my god I can't wear my _coat?!"_

* * *

That evening, John made sure to pick out seven of his favorite jumpers, button-downs, and jeans, all of which coincidentally happened to be the ones everyone else (especially Sherlock) thought to be most horrid. He almost cackled with glee at the thought of Sherlock in anything but his usual super expensive, high quality suits. He did make sure to choose the longest jeans he owned, though, as a small courtesy to the much taller man.

They had decided that undergarments needn't be shared- for obvious hygiene issues. Other than that, every single stitch of cloth on Sherlock's body had to be John's.

After collecting various socks, ties, belts, shoes, jackets and scarves (it was frigid out), he neatly packed away the clothes in the only suitcase he owned.

 _Sherlock's gonna love this._

Evil grin on his face, he practically skipped downstairs to hand over the clothes. When he saw Sherlock's dejected slump, however, he felt the tiniest amount of pity _._

 _Poor chap's probably never worn_ anything _lower than 800 thread count. Even when high._

He thought of something.

"How 'bout I wear _your_ clothes? To even it out?"

Sherlock actually jumped at his voice- the fact that he hadn't heard John _skip_ down the stairs have some indication of just how distraught he was.

John placed his case next to Sherlock, then turned to face him.

"Hmm? What do you think? We can both switch clothes, it might make you feel a little better that it's not just you. Also, we won't creepily look like twins, dressed the same."

Sherlock just looked at him for a second, and John was surprised to see a kind of warmth behind his eyes- he was surprised and appreciative that John had even offered. The look was gone in a moment. Sherlock dragged a hand across his face and groaned. "But- you'll get my suits all wrinkly!"

"Come on, I'm trying to make a compromise here. And I wouldn't mind looking spic for a week."

A long pause.

"Fine. Just- no coat, okay? Belstaff mine."

John just laughed and headed to the kitchen to make tea. "Give me your clothes before morning."

Sherlock's resounding groan was only slightly mollified.

 _This will be oh so fun._

* * *

The next morning, John opened his door dressed in just his bathrobe, to find a posh suitcase with seven days' worth of Sherlock's clothing. He had included a couple suits, multiple dress shirts and pants, and other accessories, all shiny and satiny. As John ran his hands over the material, he felt like he was touching a piece of heaven- what quality! What softness! The exorbitant amount of money Sherlock (more like Mycroft) spent on his clothing definitely seemed to be worth it. John was actually quite excited to wear them; this was easily the best quality clothing he had every come in contact with. He chuckled, imagining how Sherlock was feeling at the moment, about his own, much cheaper clothing.

John noticed that while all of the given clothes were amazing, they were not Sherlock's best- he had not included his deep violet shirt, or his silk bathrobe, or his blue scarf. And of course he hadn't included his Belstaff- off limits. John winced, wondering how he'd stay warm, but decided to leave it be. He'd manage.

He eagerly dressed in a pair of black dress pants, which were a _tad_ tight and long, a dark blue satiny button down, and a pair of shiny black loafers. He glanced in the mirror, and was honestly stunned by what he saw- he looked _hot._

Like _, really hot._

He smirked, and admired how the slim fit of the pants flattered his toned leg muscles, and how the color of the shirt brought out the deep blue of his own eyes.

 _Might just take up Mycroft on that offer to update my wardrobe, after all. I am a lady_ magnet _!_

He took one last long, appraising look at his reflection, then smirked again and grabbed his things for work. As he neared the downstairs landing, he got ready to strike a pose for Sherlock, and show off 'his' new outfit. But Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

Slightly disappointed, John made his way through the whole floor, looking for the tall git. He wasn't in the kitchen doing an experiment, where he usually would be at 7 am. He couldn't still be sleeping? No, Sherlock never slept. So where was he?

A loud moan suddenly sounded from somewhere in the flat and he immediately went on high alert, reaching for the gun tucked behind the skull on the mantle.

 _Sherlock. He's hurt. Someone got in here and hurt him. Ok, stay calm and find him._

He crept towards the moaning, which seemed to originate from... Sherlock's room?

Now even more apprehensive, John stealthily positioned himself outside Sherlock's room, and, completely disregarding Sherlock's no-entry rule (after all, Sherlock never regarded _his)_ and burst inside, gun drawn.

Confused when he didn't immediately find any threat, his heart rate had just started to slow when he saw Sherlock on the floor, in front of his mirror- and he immediately ran to him to check for injuries.

 _Clutching his head, so maybe fell and hit his head? Or possibly sick? Check for concussion._

He knelt down urgently, and was about to perform a full check-up when Sherlock looked up with the purest look of disgust on his face.

"JOoohn. I look ridiculous."

He groaned again and plopped his head back in his hands. Then only did John relax, finally understanding that there was no imminent danger. Just Sherlock being Sherlock.

And then only did John realize exactly why Sherlock was groaning, and it was all he could do not to burst out laughing. It would probably just aggravate Sherlock further.

Sherlock was dressed in John's oatmeal colored jumper, with a blue plaid shirt underneath, and his longest jeans, just one of John's usual outfits- _but they were all ridiculously short_. The pants barely reached his mid-calf, and the jumper was hanging loose around his lanky frame, just above his belly button. At least for decency's sake, the shirt was a tad longer and actually covered (most) of his midriff.

Between snorts, John managed to get out, "Oh, you big git. I thought you were hurt! Stand up, I assure you that you look fine. My clothes really do flatter you, especially your height! You look great, mate."

"Shut up. Shut up." Sherlock practically growled, before standing abruptly and sweeping past him to the door, attempting and failing to move with his usual flamboyance.

If John hadn't been snickering beyond control and had been looking at Sherlock's face, he would have noticed the brief look of appreciation that flashed across it when he saw John's outfit. But he was out the door before he could see.

 _For another time,_ Sherlock thought, and smiled to himself.

 _Maybe this week won't be so bad after all._

* * *

A/N: This just popped into my head, and I had fun with it. Wrote it in around an hour, so if it sucks... well, it made me laugh, so I guess that's enough! I don't usually write lighthearted things, or dialogue, so let me know if I'm any good at this!


End file.
